


Guilty Pleasures

by Camelea



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Character Study - Belial, Hence Belifaa, Lucilius is mentioned but doesn't appear, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Other, murder ideation, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25220278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelea/pseuds/Camelea
Summary: Guilty pleasures, he thinks as he washes his face. Would Lucilius finally tear down his core if he were to see how depraved his creation had turned? Perhaps he would. Defiling one of his creations would certainly make him mad. Even if the defiler and the defiled were the same person.
Relationships: Belial/Lucilius (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Guilty Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first time I muster the courage to post something here and I'm still new to writing fanfictions. Hopefully this won't be too bad for a first attempt! I tried to keep an eye opened for grammar issues and typos but since this hasn't received proper beta-reading I can't promise anything.  
> Feel free to comment and criticize as long as it's constructive enough, I'd be happy to have reader's opinions on my work!!

Belial jolts awake. Cold sweat rolls down his brows, intermingling with another substance at the corner of his eyes. His breath lies heavy on his chest. Deep shaky exhales force themselves past his parted lips. Half-lidded crimson pools seem to glow in the dark. A twisted smirk creeps on his features, barely revealing clenched teeth.

Hungry fingers brush over plump, red flesh. They don't stop there, they never do. Leaving but the fleeting idea of touch in their wake. They travel downwards. Famishing. 

An instant, they pause, seizing Belial's throat. The grip is tight, but it doesn't last. Hardly enough to excite, far from sufficient to satiate. Already short on breath, he's still left even more panting. Wanting. 

The hands that have momentarily stopped resume their course. They linger on the heaving chest, twitching and devouring flesh, tracing well-defined abs as they sink further down. Nails claw at the supple pale skin, carving scrapes and bruises along their way. Intoxicating. 

Eventually they find access to Belial's groin. They outline the curves there, circling their prize. Ever so closer, never quite enough. The motion to get there was slow but effortless. Belial has always slept naked. A man of his kind would live past the need for clothing, if it were possible.

A broken moan resounds as fingers wrap around his hardening shaft. They deliver a faint flick at the tip, then a tight squeeze just where it is the sweetest, not quite at the base, slightly under the head. Another shameless sound escapes from swollen, bitten lips. 

And then he strokes. It starts leisurely at first, almost hesitantly, but the hand is soon emboldened by the waves of heat swelling in Belial's lower belly. He is soon thrusting his hips into the grip erratically, losing himself in a kind of reckless abandon that feels both painfully wrong and deliciously right. Yet it still isn't enough. 

While one hand works him towards release, the other wanders, seeking a way towards completion. It reaches for his back, abandoning any attempt at being subtle as it prods at Belial's entrance. He doesn't have a mind to prepare for it and can't bring himself to care.

He slips one finger inside. The sting is more than bearable, the foreign sensation of intrusion making a familiar warmth coil in his core. He groans, hoarse breaths growing deeper, more uneven. 

He adds a second finger. For the first time since he was torn out of sleep, glazed eyes open wide, regaining their full shade of dark, glowing crimson. Both his hands move relentlessly, the one inside reaching as deep as it can, aiming for his sweet spot. Heat and sting become scorching as the motions quicken. 

He barely has time to insert a third finger that he is seized by a throaty moan, louder than all the others still. It somewhat hurts but he doesn't mind pain. Not of that kind. 

Soon, Belial finds himself spilling on his belly, unable to take more. But something isn't right, he thinks. Something is lacking. He is full but not complete. 

"Faa-san!" he whines as he rides his orgasm. 

His mind doesn't process the words. They were spoken with the urgency of the climax but the deference of a prayer. A song of worship already lost to the wind.

Belial stays still for a while, basking in the twisted light his afterglow provides in the dark room. His nostrils twitch when he's hit by the scent of sweat, lust and sex. Liquid substances have dried on his cheeks, leaving nothing but a trail of salt in their wake and he feels dirty. Then again, he doesn't mind the dirt. 

Painfully, he stands. He staggers as he heads to the bathroom. As he makes for the sink, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dusty mirror. The curve of his lips goes upwards, but his expression is empty, emotionless. Disgusting, he thinks.

Belial stares at his naked form as he idly rinses his belly. White stains upon pale skin. Smudges that disappear as soon as they were made. Once he's clean, there's nothing left on him but the crevices of his muscles. He has no scars, his sole imperfections mere bruises caused by his own hands.

His gaze traces the lines of his chest, raising slowly to his neck. Light blueish traces remain there, hints of self-inflicted pain. Or was it pleasure? 

Belial flashes his reflection a wry smile. He grabs at his own throat, gazing at the image in the mirror as though it were someone else. He gives it one harsh squeeze but stops before it can hurt. He gasps. 

He cannot do that. Only one can. His Messiah. His Lord. His Savior. The man that embodies both his darkest desires and the deepest of loves. Lucilius. 

Belial's eyes are vacant, but a frown paints his face as images spill in his mind. Those he sees at the most somber hours of night. Those of Lucilius' death, the way he got his head cut clear off his body. 

He feels the taste of bile flowing in his mouth and can't help but throw up in the sink. Oh, how he hates. He hates Lucilius' enemies, and the world that gave them birth. He hates this meaningless life, where all he had was taken from him. He hates himself. What a vile, loathsome being he has become, he thinks, an eerie look plastered on his face. 

Still, can he really help it? How he longs for his Messiah to return, for their enemies to perish. How he yearns to see them suffer the same pain they have. How he gets off on the idea of their heads rolling on the floor, each new corpse another step towards his Master's revival.

Guilty pleasures, he thinks as he washes his face. Would Lucilius finally tear down his core if he were to see how depraved his creation had turned? Perhaps he would. Defiling one of his creations would certainly make him mad. Even if the defiler and the defiled were the same person.

A smirk creeps on his lips, replacing his hollow smile, hiding it. Those thoughts could almost make him go another round. Almost. 

Belial heaves one deep exhale and glares one last time at his reflection. He clenches his fists, nearly assuming a combat stance. All of it is pointless, he knew better than to dwell on useless memories. No matter how fond of them he is, everything is blurry. The reminiscence of a lost paradise. Nostalgy truly has a weird power. Loathing will get him nowhere, he reflects.

So, he turns away. It would be so easy to end it all, he thinks as he goes back to his bed. Still, he has his own beliefs. Only the one who gave him life has the right to take it back. He has lived by that standard forever. With the passing years, he came to yearn for that end. To long for destruction by the hands of his creator. How ironic, knowing said man himself.

Belial had plunged and crumbled long ago, when he decided that his life would be one of worship. It had dawned on him as an evidence, clear as day. Dark as the void. Now, more than hopes, he has found certainty. The Grand Finale is drawing near, and he will see to it that Lucilius and him can enjoy the sight of the world falling to ashes, together.

"I'll wait for you, Faa-san, my Messiah."

He silences himself, hearing but the sound of his breath and the beating of his heart.

"Don't let me down..." he whispers.

A prayer. The one that would stay on his lips until the very end.


End file.
